Crazy Train
by Phx
Summary: AU Tag for 5.04. They really should have left together in the Impala... HurtSam, WorriedDean
1. Chapter 1

_**AU tag to 5.04. Spoilers for episodes 5.01 to 5.04. **_

**Disclaimer**: _If we owned them, we'd never let them out to play!!_

_This story is a collaboration between four crazy Sam girls – a round robin, if you'd prefer: Geminigrl1, Trasan, Phx and carocali. We hope you enjoy. Let us know what you think. _

_Crazy Train is completed and will be posted in five parts._

**Crazy Train**

There was nothing more to say, and for once, it was a good thing. Sam asked Dean if he should follow him and Dean said yeah, and that was it.

The Impala led the way down the dirt road toward the county route that crossed the highway. It had to have a motel on it somewhere. A hundred bucks a night or a by-the-hour: at this point, Dean didn't care. All he knew was by God, _this_ time, he'd better get more than four hours of sleep. And from the looks of him, Sam wouldn't suffer from a full night's worth of shut-eye, either.

For the first time in…too long…Dean slipped a tape in the deck and cranked it. Ozzy, _Crazy Train_: both a classic and the freaking truth. Although, considering everything that had happened the past few weeks, life was a lot less crazy—actually made sense—now that he and Sam were together.

And nothing—not angels or demons or even Lucifer and the freaking Apocalypse—were going to tear them apart again. Bad things happened when they weren't together. Dean saw that now, more clearly than ever. No matter what Zachariah's plan had been, Dean's lesson from his little _Back to the Future_ adventure was that, come high water and Hell, what mattered was family.

Winchesters 'til the end. Zachariah and Michael and anyone else who tried to get in the way again could pretty much suck it.

Grinning to himself, feeling in control like he hadn't since the night in Cold Oak when he'd held Sam's dead body in his arms, Dean tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, singing along. _I've listened to dropouts who make their own rules._

He flicked a glance toward the rearview mirror somewhere around the third chorus, making sure Sam and his god awful pimpmobile were keeping up. They were definitely ditching it as soon as they found a safe spot. It was an embarrassment, seriously.

Not to mention that Sam…Sam's place was in the Impala. Regardless of what Dean told Castiel about having more fun, without his brother, than he'd had in years, the truth was no one belonged shotgun but Sam. Anything else was just plain wrong.

Even more wrong than Sam's taste in stolen cars.

Although, come to think of it, Dean had no idea if Sam had stolen it or not. A question to ask, once they were sitting down somewhere quiet; one of many. And this time, he was going to listen. Not judge.

Dean glanced back again just in time to see the Continental swerve a little. He frowned. The road was clear and straight, and _he'd_ had no issues navigating it. What was Sam's deal?

He watched a little closer for a moment or two, but nothing else unusual happened. Whatever had thrown Sam off course, it was behind them now. Which was a pretty good metaphor, if anyone wanted to know.

_Goodbye to Romance_ slid to _Dee _and _Suicide Solution_, and then it was time to flip the tape, so it took Dean a few miles to realize Sam had slowed down, at first a little and then considerably. He braked hard, hand in his pocket and reaching for his cell when he saw the gold car drift across the yellow line. Abandoning the phone, he threw the Impala in Park, shouting for his brother as the Lincoln kept drifting, drifting.

He shoved his door open and sprinted across the road just as Sam disappeared over the lip of a deep ditch. There was the sound of grinding metal and breaking glass and the smell of burning antifreeze and Dean was running for Sam's life, for his own.

"Sammy!"

There was no answer.

"Shit, Shit, Shit!" Dean's side burned as he ran. The little love scratch that Croatoan bitch-child had given him five years in the future—and man, how the Hell could he hurt from something that hadn't even happened yet?—rubbed against the material of his shirt, but he didn't care. The pounding fear that ripped through him at not knowing what was wrong with his brother, what had happened to make Sam swerve off the road, was the more mortal wound.

Side-trotting down the ditch, Dean slipped once but caught his balance, his eyes glued on the car which was nose down in the dirt, engine still running. The front end was badly damaged, crumpled in with smoke rising from the mangled hood and the windshield shattered.

"Sam!" he yelled as he saw the dark shape of his brother through the cracked glass of side window. It didn't look like the kid was moving.

"Sammy!" he bellowed again, stumbling the last few feet through wet muck towards the car. He grabbed the door and tried to wrench it open—but it was stuck.

Peering in through the window, Dean saw Sam slumped forward against the steering wheel; his face, turned towards Dean, was badly cut and bloodied. Hopefully only unconscious —_don'tbedeadpleasedon'tbedead— _the kid was a mess and wasn't going to be any help.

Yanking on the door again, Dean growled low in his throat. The front end of the yellow monstrosity was not only crumpled but had been pushed back towards the body of the vehicle, effectively trapping his brother inside.

"Damnit!" he cursed loudly. He had to get the car turned off! The last thing they needed was for it to explode. His brother would be roasted alive!

The smell of leaking fluids amplified his fear…

"Sammy? Crap! Crap! Hang on, buddy, just hang on!" Recklessly throwing himself at the back door, he almost fell on his ass when, with only a loud squeal, it wrenched open. "Yes!" Dean shouted diving inside and flinging himself over the front seat, careful not to jostle Sam as he reached for the keys and yanked them out of the ignition. The engine died but smoke continued to plume.

An explosion was still a real threat.

"No one's burning today," Dean grunted as he twisted into a better position on the front seat. Pressing shaking fingers against his brother's throat, he begged. "C'mon, c'mon." Tears burned his eyes as he realized just how long it had been since he'd touched his brother for any reason other than triage. _Shoulda given the kid a damn hug when I had the chance… _

Hurried thrumming beneath his touch had Dean exhaling in relief. "That's my boy," he whispered then patted Sam's shoulder lightly. His brother was alive but in big trouble.

"Okay, kiddo," he murmured as he glanced around. "Let's see about getting you out of here." The only way he could think of would involve man-handling the injured man over the front seat. Dean grimaced. Not exactly his first choice, especially when he had no idea how badly Sam was hurt.

Something crackled under the hood and Dean panicked. 9-1-1 was out of the question. There was no time!

Fighting panic with practicality, Dean almost slapped himself for not thinking about this sooner. Castiel! Friggin' angel had to be good for something, right? Well, other than the obvious countless times he'd saved their asses, including only a couple of hours before…

Fumbling out his cell phone and keeping his free hand on Sam's neck, Dean hastily put in the call.

Castiel didn't even get a chance to say more than, "Dean," before Dean was rambling off a quick proximity of their location and telling him they were in deep shit.

The angel was in the backseat before the anxious hunter even told him what the trouble was. Moments later, Sam was out of the car and lying safely on his side on the backseat of the Impala, Dean a second behind him.

"Dean," Castiel's voice held a cautious warning when the hunter started to reach for his brother.

Dean looked at him in question and then followed the angel's gaze. All the blood drained from his face when Dean saw what had stricken his friend.

Buried to the hilt, low in Sam's side, was Ruby's knife.

"Oh, shit," he whispered.

Castiel nodded. "Indeed."

And then the yellow car exploded behind them.

**TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

_**Spoilers for episodes 5.01 to 5.04. **_

**Disclaimer**: _If we owned them, we'd never let them out to play!!_

_Thanks to everyone for your wonderful support. We are glad that so many people are enjoying our little collaboration. Again this is a round robin done by Geminigrl1, Trasan, Phx and carocali. and we hope you enjoy; let us know what you think._

_Crazy Train is completed and will be posted in five parts. This is the second part._

**Crazy Train**

**Chapter 2**

When Dean had declared that he wanted Sam back in the Impala, this was certainly not what he had in mind.

The trip forward had opened Dean's eyes in many ways. It also brought up a hundred more questions, the most important being, "Why did Sam say yes?" Future!Dean had said that he hadn't spoken to Sam in five years. Was their last phone call—the one where he'd told Sam they should stay in different hemispheres, essentially hanging up on his brother—really the last contact he'd had with Sam? Were his words the catalyst for his brother's eventual betrayal of mankind?

Well, that was not going to happen!

Now, after being reminded about the importance of family, Dean hovered over his unconscious brother, slivers from the Continental's shattered windshield carving souvenirs across Sam's face. For a moment, Dean was frozen, struggling at the next steps to take as he watched Sam slowly bleed out, feeling all those familiar emotions again—fear, panic. Love.

"Cas, can you do anything?" Dean implored with a hitch in his voice, knowing this whole situation could go even further south quickly. "I can't…"

The angel stood stoically by the side of the car with a look of pity at the broken family. "I am sorry, Dean. I cannot interfere."

"Damn it, Cas!"

Even as the question spilled from his lips, Dean knew that Cas would be unable to help. After all, Bobby had demanded a miracle after his bout with the dagger, and the angel was helpless then as well. Donning his Big Brother skin once again, he jumped into the back of the car to get a better look at the life-threatening knife wound, readying himself for Winchester triage.

Pulling back Sam's jacket revealed a mess. The hilt was buried deep in his side, the serrated edge of the blade slicing and shredding the tender skin. Ironic, really, that the knife that had killed so many demons was now buried in the vessel of a fallen _angel;_ but this angel had nothing good in mind. The mystery of the blade's powers appeared to have no influence on Sam in spite of his previous extra-curricular activities. This, in itself, was a huge relief to Dean, solidifying his resolution to bring his brother back into his life. The mortal effect of the dagger, however, was a staggering blow.

And just how had Sam managed to stab himself with it in the first place? The only thing Dean could figure was that the kid had laid it on the seat next to him – _in probably some place of reverence knowing the sap_, he thought affectionately – and then got impaled on the ricochet when the car hit the ditch.

"I can't take him to the hospital—too many questions. And now with that car…" Dean hesitated as he turned back towards the angel who was eerily lit from the burning steel beast behind him. "My room. I got a room—"

Before Dean could complete his thought, they were there. It was clean, with two beds, just like old times and booked an hour earlier by Dean in hopeful anticipation. He hadn't even brought in his own stuff through. Just got the room and raced to meet his brother.

Sam was carefully deposited on the bed farthest from the door; a queen-sized deep red comforter and Norman Rockwell knock-offs on the walls surrounded them. The first aid kit and their duffles were centered on the other bed.

"Thanks, Cas."

Turning to get the kit, he reached first for the scissors, knowing that in order to properly treat the wound, Sam's shirt was history. Between the cutting and the crimson staining, there was no saving the cloth.

Sam, however, was a different story.

Removing the layered clothing, Dean gingerly touched the lacerated skin, noting it was already burning from the entry of the blade—raw and angry. It wasn't superficial by any means, deep into the epidermal layers, but it seemed to have missed any vital organs. Dean breathed a quick sigh of relief, looking briefly to the ceiling he still sent a thank you towards the heavens, knowing there was no one there to accept it. At least, not at the moment.

"Sit tight, Sammy. I'll be right back."

Dean ran to the bathroom, filling the ice bucket with hot water and grabbing the washcloth, dunking it inside. The rest of the towels were quickly draped over his arm as he stumbled back towards his unmoving brother.

Dean saw Cas standing silently at the foot of the bed, watching the labored breaths of the wounded man. He hurried past the angel, grabbing the kit again, finding the saline, needle and thread at his first pass through the case. Dean took a final look at the wound before deciding on his course of action.

The bucket of water was balanced on the nightstand, ready for use. Dean grabbed the face towel inside, gently wiping away the still-pooling blood from the wound to get a better look. There was always the risk that the removal would cause a gusher, but at this point, Dean didn't have much choice.

"Cas, can you put pressure here?" Dean grabbed the angel's hand, placing a dry towel in it and guiding it to the wound. When he was comfortable with the placement of pressure, he moved to the next phase of the removal. Letting out a quick, steadying breath, Dean grabbed the hilt with a shake in his hand. Knowing the jagged edge would cause more damage as it was removed, he pulled the flat end towards him, slicing more of the skin. With a horrid slurp, he began removing the dagger with as much care as possible.

The dual-edged knife sliced along the entire width of the wound increasing the likelihood something vital would be damaged. If he'd misjudged the depth or the severity, Sam would bleed out in minutes. As the dagger slipped free, Dean adjusted Castiel's hand. "Keep pressure on it, Cas."

The angel nodded, his face the picture of serene detachment. Dean fumbled for the saline to flush the wound as well as needle and thread for stitching. Sam groaned low in his throat, his eyes moving rapidly behind closed lids. "Not yet, Sammy, please."

Castiel sat back, releasing his hold. Red stained the angel's fingers.

"Damn it, keep the pressure here! We need to get the bleeding under control."

"We are hurting him," Castiel said, his tone neutral, but his eyebrows creased with concern.

"I know." Dean opened fresh gauze pads to dress the wound. Grabbing a clean towel and guiding the angel's hand back to Sam's side, he kept his hand there for a minute, showing Castiel how much pressure to apply. "We don't have a choice."

Momentary panic tightened his chest. This was too big. He should have taken Sam to the hospital. He should have—called Bobby. Speed dial two and three rings later, a gruff voice came over the line.

"_Dean, you'd better be calling to tell me you know where Sam is."_

Dean frowned; he'd follow up on the why of Bobby's question later. Right now, he needed the older man's help. "As a matter of fact, he's here with me." He ignored the snort of approval from the other end of the phone. "I'll explain later, but Sam was stabbed, Bobby, with the demon knife. I got it out, but I'm not sure I can do this!"

"_Son of a bitch." _

Dean heard Bobby slam something down hard on the wooden desk in South Dakota and it ratcheted up his panic. If the older hunter couldn't help, Dean needed to call for an ambulance now. "Bobby, please?"

"_Well, first thing __you've__ got to do is breathe."_

"Bobby," Dean growled.

"_I'm serious, Dean. It's not like you to panic and I understand, but you need to tell me exactly what you see."_

"Yeah, okay." He edged closer to Sam, elbowing Castiel aside.

"_Can you see subcutaneous, fatty tissue?"_

Dean carefully lifted the towel, bending low to examine the injury. "Yeah, it's deep. Full length of the blade at least."

"_Is it seeping or is the blood flowing freely?"_

"I don't think it nicked anything like a vein or an organ. It was low."

"_No chance it perforated his intestine?"_

He hadn't even considered the intestines. Dean pressed the towel firmly against his brother's side, wincing when Sam groaned again.

"_Dean?"_

"I don't know, Bobby."

"_Okay, we'll keep an eye on him. You can do this, Dean. Just irrigate the wound and stitch it up when the bleeding is under control."_

Dean took a deep breath. "I got it, Bobby, just stay on the phone, okay?"

"_It ain't like I'm going anywhere." _

He kept Bobby on the phone while he pressed the towel against Sam's side, whispering encouragement in the form of smart ass remarks and fondness disguised as name-calling. Sam didn't so much as flinch when he flushed the deep wound with the saline solution, but Dean was only half-way through stitching when glassy hazel eyes popped open and a strong hand gripped his arm.

Dean froze, speaking calmly to his brother. "Sam, easy."

"Dean?" Sam frowned, his face contorting in pain. "Stop."

"Just a few more stitches." He pressed a hand to Sam's head, gently pushing him back against the bed. "Almost done."

Sam's eyes fluttered shut with a whispered _okay_. The rest of the stitches were finished in record time. Dean taped the gauze pads over the artificially sealed wound and sat back, scrubbing a shaky hand down his face.

"_Dean, you still there?"_

"Yeah, thanks, Bobby." He watched the rhythmic rise and fall of Sam's chest, mesmerized by the reassuring sign of life. "Stay on the line while I check his head, okay?"

"'_Course."_

Dean dipped the washcloth in water, carefully cleaning the blood from Sam's face. Most of it had come from a single laceration on his brother's forehead, accompanied by a swelling goose egg. Antibacterial ointment and butterfly strips completed the job.

He caught a glimpse of Castiel, standing quietly in the corner. "Hey, Bobby, can you send someone out to tow the Impala?" Dean caught the angel's eye, waiting for a nod of approval. "Castiel will be waiting at the car."

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 3

_**Spoilers for episodes 5.01 to 5.04. **_

**Disclaimer**: _If we owned them, we'd never let them out to play!!_

_Thanks for all the wonderful reviews. We are happy so many people are enjoying this 'sweet' little hurt/comfort story :P Yeah, I suppose 'sweet' is pushing it, lol! I hope you enjoy this chapter as well - please let us know._

**Crazy Train**

**Chapter 3**

Bobby had the address he needed and Castiel had flown off or disappeared or whatever the Hell it was he did.

Sam was unconscious but the stitches looked solid, so Dean dragged over the sheets, comforter and blanket from the other bed to drape over him.

Realizing how cold Sam's skin still was from shock and blood loss, he dug into the closest duffel for a pair of warm socks and tugged them over Sam's feet. He considered for a moment and then pulled out another pair for Sam's hands. When he was finished, the image Sam presented was a dead ringer for his six-year-old self, covered from head to toe in chicken pox with his hands stuffed in Dad's tube socks to keep him from scratching.

The memory wasn't enough to make Dean smile, though. Not when there were blood-soaked towels on the floor and the scattered carcasses of three suture kits, the wrappers from half a dozen bandages. The room looked like a war zone and as Dean set about cleaning things up, bundling them in a paper bag they would burn later on, he couldn't stop his hands from shaking.

He'd lost Sam, in the future. His brother, as good as dead. _Worse_ than dead: Lucifer's vessel in flesh and blood. There was no way of knowing if the whole flash forward thing was legit or some construct of Zachariah's fevered imagination, designed exclusively to get Dean to agree to do his bidding. But either way, it wasn't something Dean ever wanted to relive.

Still, it had served its purpose…not for Zachariah, but for Dean. Without it, Dean probably would have stuck by his words to Sam in that last phone call. Telling him they weren't stronger together but better apart. With the subtext of _don't call me, I'll call you_. Dean could admit it, to himself at least: his goodbye to Sam had been just that—a permanent one. He'd had no expectation of ever seeing his brother again, especially since he'd doubted either one of them would survive the End Times ahead.

Now, looking at Sam laying motionless and pale on the bed, Dean couldn't imagine going even another day without him. He _needed_ Sam. To watch his back. To make him laugh the way only Sam really could. To keep him human.

To need him right back.

It was all starting to come together now, snapshots of the last few months. The things he'd said to Sam, practically from the beginning. _Do you know how far off the reservation you are? If I didn't know you, I would want to hunt you. You're a monster. I can't trust you._

And the things he'd actually let himself contemplate, in his worst moments. _At least he'll die human._

All the ways he'd let Sam down when his brother needed him most. Ways Dean hadn't always noticed, but even when he had, ways he'd justified to himself.

Bobby'd tried to warn him, right before everything went to Hell—reminding him what family meant and what Dean was letting slip away. Telling him, in pretty much those exact words, how much more important it was to bring Sam back than to be _right. _But Dean hadn't listened then.

If Sam made it through this…

Scratch that. Sam would make it through this. And when he was coherent again, Dean was going to tell him some things. Apologize, too—yeah, _again_, because even though Sam had accepted it without question, Dean needed to make sure Sam really knew how sorry he was. What he was sorry _for_. There was no question he meant it differently, now. Meant it more.

Sam shifted on the bed, head tossing, Dean's name a broken whisper on his tongue.

The poor kid was exhausted. Looking at him now, it was no wonder he'd probably nodded off for a second behind the wheel, unintentionally giving that horrid car a quick death –

And almost killing himself.

Dean smoothed a hand over Sam's bangs, let it linger gently on his bruised cheek, feeling the growing warmth of fever. The worst wasn't behind them yet. But Big Brother was back in the game, and doing the job he should have been doing all along. "Easy, Sammy. Just sleep. I'm here."

Dean settled himself next to Sam on the bed, one foot planted on the floor and one hand on the crown of Sam's head. Protecting. Guarding. Taking care. Braced for the long night to come.

**------**

Sam was hot. His skin was burning. Panting quietly, he forced his eyes open to darkness and blinked a vague outline of a room into focus.

He was in a motel then.

Figured…

Horrid pain seared through his side when he tried to move and he inhaled sharply. _Holy shit! That hurt._

Sam's heart pounded in his ears making him dizzy as cold sweat pooled against the back of his neck and he really just wanted to close his eyes again… but he couldn't. Not until he could figure this out. All he knew was that something big had happened—he just couldn't remember what.

The injured hunter instinctively started to call out for his brother, "De-".

But stopped.

The word was swallowed back painfully. Dean wasn't here. His brother wasn't going to come this time.

Not when he hated Sam.

_"We're not stronger when we're together, Sam. I think we're weaker."_

Funny, Sam could remember that but nothing else—

But it didn't change him wanting Dean to be there.

Was he a glutton for punishment or what?

No.

He was just a hurting and broken man who desperately wanted, _needed_, his big brother.

Shivering hard, Sam groaned out loud, coherent enough to know he was in trouble but too far gone to realize just how much. Training forced action, through. Lying on his back made him too vulnerable. He _had_ to get up.

Pressing his hands against the mattress beneath him, Sam sucked in a breath, grit his teeth and prepared to push up as images slid in and out of focus casting him between insane hunters —_We want to hear it from you— _and a hungering devil.

_You will say yes. _

Memories?

Delirium?

Oh, God—what was going on?

He was just so confused.

And scared.

Sam froze as he started to push up, his fevered brow wrinkling in further confusion. What was _that_? He slowly lifted one shaking hand in font of his face and stared. _What?_ Blinking hard, he waited for the image to change. It didn't.

He was wearing socks on his hands.

_He was wearing socks on his hands?_

Black socks at that.

_I don't wear black socks,_ his mind reminded him_. Dean wears black socks._

But Dean wasn't here—

Which meant someone else was!

Fear spiked and shoved adrenaline through his body as the sound of someone at the door had him on his feet, swaying, and desperate for something to protect himself. The world swam in and out of focus, though, and he was forced back onto his ass on the edge of the mattress as the door swung open and his brother stepped inside, flicking on the light to illuminate the pale glow of the side lamps as he did.

"Sam?" Dean looked as shocked to see him as Sam was. "What are you doing?"

His brother sounded pissed. Now more confused then ever, Sam tried to get up again, a slurred apology an automatic on his lips. "S'rry."

"Sorry?" Dean hurried towards him, dropping something on the floor as he grabbed Sam's arm in a firm grip. "What the hell for, bro? And what exactly are you doing up?"

Sam blinked at him in utter confusion.

"Geez, dude," Dean was trying to man-handle him back down on the bed and Sam let him, too baffled to do anything but stare. _What was his brother doing here?_ "I only leave for two minutes to grab a bag of ice from the motel office and you're getting ready to try out for track and field? Kid, are you trying to give me a heart attack here?"

_Track and field?_

_Heart attack?_

_Oh,_ _God, had Dean been electrocuted again?_

Gently maneuvering Sam back down against the mattress, Dean lifted the younger man's long legs onto the bed then pulled the blankets back up over him. Sam kicked weakly at the covers, he was warm enough already.

"Hey, stop that," Dean chastised lightly and Sam immediately froze. "You're running a fever, Sam, but you still need to cover up. It's not that warm in this god-forsaken hole. Man, I have no idea what I was thinking getting a room here."

He gazed down at Sam for a long moment. "Mind you, at the time, I was only thinking that we'd need a place to crash for the night—you know, afterwards."

"After?" Sam's voice was hoarse. "After what?" He still had no idea what was going on. Although he was pretty sure now that Dean wasn't going to have a heart attack. The older man looked a bit too hyper to be on his death bed. But any thing other than that was too much for Sam's cooked mind. He was stuck on: _Dean is here._ And, _why is Dean here?_

"After," Dean gave a bitter laugh and scrubbed a hand across his tired face. He sat down on the edge of the bed next to Sam and offered him a grim smile. "Apparently…I could give you Ruby's knife to gut yourself with."

Sam's eyes widened in horror. That's why he was hurting? Dean had wanted him to kill himself and, _apparently_, Sam had screwed that up too.

Heart pounding so hard he was dizzy now, Sam's eyes burned and he started to gasp out, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, oh God, Dean, I'm sorry…"

And Dean just stared at him in shock.

**TBC**


	4. Chapter 4

_**Spoilers for episodes 5.01 to 5.04. **_

**Disclaimer**: _If we owned them, we'd never let them out to play!!_

_Once again this story is a collaboration between four crazy writers – a round robin, if you'd prefer: Geminigrl1, Trasan, Phx and carocali. We hope you enjoy. Let us know what you think. _

_Thank you for all the wonderful reviews! One chapter left!_

**Crazy Train**

**Chapter 4**

"What?" Dean was confused. "Sorry for what?" God, what was going on in that kid's mind now? It had only been a few hours since Sam had accidentally impaled himself, but that damned knife seemed to carry the curse of infection because the younger man was already burning up with it. And delirious now, too, from the sound of it.

But Sam seemed to be in his own world and didn't answer Dean, too intent on whatever fever-induced madness his mind was throwing at him.

"C'mon, Sammy," he tried to cajole, "You need to calm down."

"Lucifer," Sam mumbled, his eyes looking past Dean, searching the room frantically for something.

Instinctively, Dean followed his gaze but saw nothing. He turned back to his brother.

"Lucifer," Sam repeated, shook his head, and then said one more time, "Lucifer."

And Dean had no idea what to do.

**------**

Sam knew he had told Dean that he was Lucifer's vessel; that much he remembered. The laissez-faire attitude he'd received in return over the phone was more than a little unnerving, though. Dean told him to stay away and hung up on him.

Emptiness filled Sam at the silence on the other end of the line, tearing his heart in half. Dean had given him no chance to plead his case. He didn't trust him—would never trust him again—and Sam knew that would be the last conversation he had with his brother.

Since that call, Sam spent all his time researching any avenue to stop the devil on his own. Sleep eluded him from the moment Lucifer spilled about the master plan. He'd travelled across state lines; anywhere he thought there might be a lead. Exhaustion overtook him at every turn but he had nothing else. It was either find a way to kill Lucifer or find a way to kill himself. At this point, Sam wasn't sure which was the better option.

But then something had changed and Dean wanted to meet.

Dean said if Sam wanted back in, he'd need the knife. The _demon-killing_ knife. The same one that Sam had gotten in the gut. It wasn't to kill him. No, Sam was wrong – he'd somehow misunderstood. His brother had been trusting Sam with their most powerful weapon. But… that didn't make any sense when hours before, he'd told Sam to hit the road. _Gah, everything was a muddled mess… a muddled mess of twisted yellow car..._

Thoughts of the last days came crashing into each other like the tide to the shore. None of them made any sense as Sam's head swirled around in the fog. He wanted to believe that Dean was here, with him, but every instinct said that he wasn't.

But then Dean just said Sam was supposed to kill himself. With the knife.

His brother must have figured it out, done some research with Bobby.

_The knife…oh, God…All the demon blood must have made me susceptible …_

Suddenly, it all made sense that Dean would want to destroy the Devil's meatsuit. Why Dean was here. After all, he'd called Sam a monster, a vampire. He was a warrior of God now, and warriors killed monsters. Maybe Dean had figured out that the knife could kill Sam and that Lucifer wouldn't be able to resurrect him since he'd be sent to Hell.

_Wait, I never told Dean about Lucifer not letting me die…_.

Sam twisted away even further from Dean, sweat pouring from his brow as he tried again to unwrap the sheets from around him. The bump on his head from the crash pulsed in time with the panic in his veins as a new realization hit him square in the face

_He's Lucifer. He's using Dean to try and get to me to say yes, just like with Jessica._

Sam was suddenly all limbs as he tried to rise again. He tugged desperately at the socks on his hands, hoping to gain some measure of control back. He fumbled and pushed, all the while the burning of the knife wound reminding him who was in charge.

"I won't…"

"Sam?"

Oh, this guy was good. He'd pegged Dean's facial expressions down to a tee—the scrunched up confused face, the snarky eye squint. He even had that growl in his voice, but Sam wasn't going to fall for it. With new resolution, he yanked the socks from his hands and crab-crawled his way until he was against the headboard.

"The answer is no. It'll always be no."

The display of defiance had taken a toll and Sam could feel himself slipping, succumbing to the pull of the fever and overall exhaustion.

_How did I get stabbed…_

Things started to get hazy as he saw the man before him inching closer, hands out to the sides in sign of surrender.

"Sam. Hey, it's me. You were in a car accident. Remember?" The man wearing Dean's face came closer, soothing words of comfort. "Knife must have gotten ya when the car hit the ditch. Smooth driving there, too, Mario. Points for style, though."

It _sounded_ like Dean and _looked_ like Dean. But Dean couldn't be here.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy. Let me just take a look at your stitches to make sure you didn't pull anything with your acrobatics, okay? The rest of the supplies are in the Impala and Cas is waiting for a tow truck."

This was all too confusing to follow for Sam. _Cas was in a tow truck with the Impala?_ Sam reached out to try and straighten himself when he turned the wrong way, sending searing hot pains all across his side, radiating throughout his torso. It took his breath away, literally, as he struggled to pull in air. Eyes wide and searching, the world went a lovely shade of gray before Sam finally succumbed to the darkness.

**------**

_Well, son of a bitch! _He hadn't been able to follow Sam's muddled thoughts as he wobbled on the bed like a newborn kitten. Nothing past obviously thinking Dean was there to trick him into saying yes. It hadn't taken much to see the fevered logic, but it was no less difficult to watch.

He squashed the momentary flare of doubt that he shouldn't have reconnected with Sam, that _they _would use him against his brother and vice versa. Well, screw them. Dean planned on being a pain in their collective asses even if he and Sam were bugs to be squashed under their supernatural thumbs.

What he hadn't figured out quite yet was what exactly Sam had been apologizing for and that worried him. He hadn't only sounded sorry; every syllable had been laced with regret and guilt. Dean didn't like hearing that tone from his brother at all, especially when he didn't think there was anything he could do to make it better.

Sam was slumped awkwardly against the headboard, emitting horrible wheezing sounds. Dean carefully moved him until he was propped up slightly on pillows and breathing easier. Fever heat burned through Sam's t-shirt, sweat saturating the blue cotton.

Ice, he needed ice. Dean grabbed the ice bucket, and the bag of ice, heading to the bathroom to make cold packs for Sam's fever. He poured the remaining, now red, water from earlier into the toilet, flushing it immediately to get rid of the evidence. His throat constricted with worry; there was so much blood.

Less than five minutes later, he'd pounded together four ice packs and filled the bucket with cold water, heading for the bedroom. It was, apparently, four minutes too long.

Sam had kicked off the sheet again, but worse still, his hands were clenching and unclenching, face contorted in pain. He groaned, one of the hands reaching for his side, and that was all it took to get Dean moving again.

"Sammy, don't." A flinch of reaction, but Sam quieted, panting shallowly. Dean quickly and efficiently packed ice around his brother's neck, armpits, and hips, covering him up to the waist with the scratchy motel sheet.

Turning on the bedside swing lamp, he positioned it over Sam and cautiously peeled back the bloody gauze. A purple bruise in the shape of the knife hilt outlined the angry-looking wound. "Shit." He glanced at the clock, making note of the time. He'd give it two more hours and then he was calling Bobby again. He didn't care how scared it made him look.

And Dean _was_ scared. The knife was designed to inflict damage and it had done its job. He repaired as much as he could find, but that didn't mean there wasn't more he hadn't been able to see, down deep where it would fester and bleed and—this wasn't helping.

Instead, he busied himself with what he could do: cleaning the wound, redressing it, and not letting go. Dean wasn't letting go, not ever again. "Come on, Sammy," Dean said, pushing sweaty bangs off his brother's forehead. "You're going to be fine."

Sam's eyelids fluttered obediently open and he wrapped soggy fingers around Dean's wrist. "Dean?"

"Yeah, I'm here, kiddo." He shifted slightly to get a better view of Sam's face.

"I'm tired."

"That's because you tried to aerate your side."

Sam frowned, limp fingers uncurling and falling back to the bed. "No, couldn't sleep and then…" he trailed off, face puckering in confusion.

"And then what?" Dean asked, unsure he wanted to know. He hadn't slept well for weeks and he damn well knew why. He didn't really want to hear how it had been the same for Sam.

"I don't remember," Sam whispered. Fever bright eyes bore into Dean's. "It's all a mess."

Sam could have meant anything by that statement. His memories, what he'd done, what Dean had done, their lives. There was no telling and Dean wasn't poking it with a stick. Not now, not when Sam couldn't form a coherent thought without wearing himself out trying.

"It doesn't matter," Dean said, "We'll take care of it, we always do."

Sam nodded, his face unfurling in relief, eyes dropping closed.

For a moment, Dean thought maybe the worst of it was over. He dipped a washcloth in the cold water, sopping Sam's forehead. Dean twisted to re-dip the cloth when his brother's shout had him spinning around. "No!"

Dropping the bucket on the table, he rushed back to his brother's side. "Sam?"

Hazel eyes were open wide, unfocused, but searching. "God, no."

"Sam?" In spite of what Bobby had said earlier, now felt like the perfect time to panic. "Hey, you're okay." Dean placed a hand on his brother's arm, pulling it back quickly when Sam recoiled.

Sam's cat eyes focused on Dean, but he couldn't tell if the spark of recognition was truly for him or not. "I'm sorry."

**TBC**


	5. Chapter 5

_**Spoilers for episodes 5.01 to 5.04. **_

**Disclaimer**: _If we owned them, we'd never let them out to play!!_

_And here it is. The last chapter..._

_Thank you to everyone for your wonderful support. As you can see, we really just wrote this to give our favorite youngest Winchester some TLC. Too bad we had to crash a car and stabb him to do it :P But, you have to admit - at least for us - it brings out the absolute best in Dean. Enjoy._

**Crazy Train**

**Chapter 5**

Everything felt foggy and surreal. Dean was there but Dean had told him they had to stay apart, so maybe it was Lucifer instead. Except Lucifer was Jess and Dean was Michael and maybe he'd come to smite him because he was going to give in, was going to say yes…

"No!"

Lucifer moved toward him, hands outstretched. But he _did _have a choice and he wouldn't be his vessel. He _wouldn't_. "God, no."

"Sam? Hey, you're okay."

Sam swiveled his head, squinting a little through the haze. It was Dean after all. Maybe. He was pretty sure. And if it was, Dean would be crushed if he thought Sam had mistaken him for the devil, of all things. "I'm sorry." The words sounded weak, but he meant them. Meant them so much and for so many things.

"Fever's…messin' with me. I don't..."

"Hey." A cool hand on his forehead and it was Dean for sure. He knew it. He hoped. "You've got nothing to be sorry about, Sam, okay?"

Sam let his head drop back, snorting in disbelief. Bad move on both counts—his side lit up with pain like a neon sign and he stifled a groan, twisting to try and find a way to make it stop hurting.

"Quit squirming. You're gonna pull your stitches."

At the terse command, Sam straightened, breathing through his nose, hands digging into the bedding. Fingertips brushed his side—careful, gentle, but raking him like claws just the same. He gasped, swallowing down nausea, the whisper of Dean's apologies drifting around him like another blanket. "Got…nothing t'be…sorry…for, either…"

He kind of grayed out for a while, came awake to Dean talking to someone. "—nks again for everything. Yeah, I'll call you later, after he's awake. Take it easy, Bobby."

_Bobby. _

"'ver'thing 'k?" He couldn't quite manage to open his eyes yet.

"What d'you know? That almost sounded like English." Dean chuckled; a sound Sam hadn't heard in a while. Not the real version, anyway. It sounded…nice.

Something tapping against his chin. "Open up, Sam. Take these."

Two pills were placed on his tongue; water followed. His throat was dry and he choked on them a little. Strong hands—_Dean's_ hands—lifted him, propped him against a couple of pillows and let him breathe better. He tried to sit up straighter, but his neck felt boneless. He let his head fall to the side, instead, eyes finally open so he could see his brother.

Dean looked worn out. His chin was stubbled—not quite a beard, but a lot closer than Dean usually let it get. His eyes had smudges underneath and his t-shirt was a wrinkled mess, his hair sticking up in weird directions.

"Y' get any sleep?"

Dean huffed, dragging a hand down his face. "Kinda had other things on my mind." He gazed at Sam piercingly. "How you feeling? Sick to your stomach? Cold?"

Sam shook his head feebly. "'Little thirsty."

The cup of water came back up. Sam closed his hand around it, felt Dean let go so he could drink on his own. It was a near thing, his muscles shaking. But he managed. And it felt like a bit of a victory. He even remembered what had happened now, where they were He was still a burden for Dean, would be for the next few days maybe. But he was getting better.

Although, no sooner had Sam finished the last few drops than he lost his grip and the cup fell. He tried to reach for it, but it was hopeless. Instead, Dean caught it just as it tumbled off the side of the bed. "S'ry."

"You know, I'm really tired of hearing you say that."

The unexpected words cut, and Sam flinched a little, more hurt than he wanted to let on. Not that he blamed Dean. Sorry was such a puny little word, considering the enormity of what he'd done.

Killing Lilith, setting Lucifer free.

And, somehow worse, fighting Dean -

Strangling him –

Hearing Dean's, _"If you walk out that door, don't you ever come back,"_ and going anyway….

There was nothing he could say to make up for it all. But he wouldn't stop trying. And if Dean didn't want to hear _I'm sorry_ anymore, well…Sam would think of other words. Other ways to make his penance. And maybe someday—

"Hey. Whatever you're thinking, knock it off."

Sam startled, not realizing until then how far he'd drifted. "Sor—"

"_Sam."_

Growled. The tone unignorable. "I mean, I—"

"_Stop_, okay? Just stop."

Dean took a deep breath and then settled next to Sam on the bed. He leaned back a little so Sam could see him without straining, the look in his eyes something Sam had never seen before, didn't know how to prepare for.

"It's my turn, Sam."

Uncertain what kind of response Dean was looking for, Sam just nodded.

Dean sighed, sounding completely exhausted. "I know this probably isn't the best time to be talking about this, but I don't want to let it go anymore. _I'm _sorry, Sam, okay? _Me._"

Sam blinked. Utterly confused.

"I messed up. A lot, these past few months. I never thought about what you were going through, and I pushed you away. I left you alone. And I sided with Cas—with the angels—against you."

Sam's eyes were burning, blurred with tears. "No, Dean. Not your fault. You didn't…I was the one who…' He shoved his hands down, pushing himself forward. It hurt—_God_, it hurt—but he couldn't let Dean do this. Couldn't let him take Sam's blame for him. It was wrong, it was…

"What are you doing? Sam, don't."

"Don't have to…protect me anymore," Sam panted. His side was a lightning bolt of agony and he was dizzy, but Dean had to know. "Not gonna make you…I'll stop him. Don't know how, but I will."

"Sam, what the Hell are you…"

The words faded out. Hands clasped his shoulders and he was being lowered down. Dean was still talking, but Sam was tired, suddenly. So tired.

Maybe it was best to let it go, for now…

**------**

Dean watched as his brother drifted off —_passed out?— _again, not happy with the resigned look he saw in Sam's eyes just before his brother signed out for a bit. He was definitely going to have to keep a close eye on the kid over the coming weeks…There was no way in Hell, or heaven, Zachariah's future was coming true. He wasn't about to lose track of his brother this time. And most definitely, no Sammy suit for Lucifer. His bro just looked too damn good in white and Dean couldn't have that kind of competition, now could he?

_Of course not._

On every level.

Watching while sleep calmed Sam, his chest once again rising and falling rhythmically instead of the heaving and lurching of minutes ago, a fond smile grazed Dean's lips. _This_ was his brother: this big lug of a man who needed a hair cut and a decent coat, this person who had guilted himself to the point of exhaustion, to the point of running that monstrosity of a car into a ditch. How could Dean have ever thought—_even for a second—_that Sam could be anything but?

The fever-bright cheeks looked paler.

Dean gently pressed the back of his hand against his brother's forehead, pleased to find less heat there then before, and reflected on what a mess their lives had become.

Man, Ozzy had no idea just how close to the truth he was. Talk about living _Crazy Train_.

But—

But as long as they had each other at their backs, they would be okay.

It was more than just a thought to make himself feel better: it was as much a truth as any—as long as _they_ let it be. And Dean knew they would.

Angels? Demons? Stab wounds? They'd get through them all _and_ be stronger for it. So they'd had a bad couple of years? Okay, they were worse than 'bad', but really? So what? They'd had a _lifetime _of being brothers.

Of loving each other when that was all they had.

Somewhere along the way, that had almost been forgotten, by everyone. Most especially by the high rollers who thought that through deception and the brothers' own humanity, they could script the Winchesters and shove them into roles neither wanted to play.

Michael? Lucifer? Pfft.

That wasn't how it worked.

Not for them and not for their family. What was left of it was broken and hurting but it still was there. And Dean would be damned—again—before he let it go without a fight.

He continued to watch his brother, to soak in this privilege that had been denied his future self by his own pride and stubbornness. The fever was definitely kicking Sam while the poor kid was already down and Dean hated that. He hated seeing his brother so vulnerable and mentally self-flagellating. He wondered if this was how Sam had felt much of the prior year after Dean had first come back from Hell a changed man, troubled by choices, worried about rejection. Questioning his place in this world and his right to it—

And then he shook the thoughts away. There was no more point for regret.

What was done was done, what was said was said, but what was broken could be fixed and that was the important part. And if Sam thought he had to fix it alone, well…Dean would make sure he knew better, next time they had a more coherent conversation.

So, as Dean fixed the blanket over his slumbering brother, he gently pushed the too-long hair out of Sam's face and lightly fingered a thinner cheekbone, inhaling the ability to do so.

"You're going to be okay," he promised quietly, lingering a moment longer and then moving to his own bed and carefully laying down. A moment of twisting had him facing his brother and he let out a heavy sigh as he sunk down into the paid-for comfort of a motel bed.

It was only then that Dean realized just how far he'd gone from home… and just how good it felt to be back.

And he knew that in a few hours, and with some decent sleep for a change, things would be better. Not perfect, not even okay, but better. Dean would make Sam understand that they both screwed up and then, and only then, could they truly have a fresh start.

But if Sam wasn't ready to hear him, 'cause sometimes his brother's tenacity was difficult to negotiate around, then Dean would just make sure he kept the kid on a tight leash until he was ready to listen.

Finally, closing his eyes for the first time in days, Dean slept. Caressed by a lullaby of the soul. Oddly enough set to the tune of Ozzy Osbourne…

_Crazy, but that's how it goes__… Millions of people living as foes… Maybe it's not too late  
to learn how to love… And forget how to hate…_

_I__'m going off the rails on a crazy train._

The End

_*lyrics courtesy of lyricsfreak. com. Awesome song, Ozzy. Awesome…_


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